


Hands on the Counter

by orphan_account



Category: Hawkeye (Comics), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Avenger Clint Barton, Bartender Bucky Barnes, Deaf Clint Barton, Implied/Referenced Character Death, M/M, Modern Bucky Barnes, Not Canon Compliant, SHIELD Agent Clint Barton
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-18
Updated: 2020-10-18
Packaged: 2021-03-09 03:27:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,658
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27078037
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: He looked at the mirror behind the shelves of alcohol, watching the rest of the bar casually. There were a few small high top tables along the long alley in front of the bar, before the room opened up to a slightly larger space that housed a couple well worn tables, a single pool table, and another few high tops along the walls. Next to the door that said “bathroom, this way”, there was a dart board. Clint didn’t see any darts in it, but he could imagine it bristling full of red and black ends, clustered tightly in the middle. There was a redhead laughing, hand extended to take the cash from Clint’s unsuspecting victims. “Never bet against this one, fools."Filling a prompt about loss, in a bar, with a bartender who might be able to offer more than local brews.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Clint Barton
Comments: 6
Kudos: 35





	Hands on the Counter

**Author's Note:**

> I went a little wild and decided to do NaNoWriMo for the first time this year after not having written anything outside of school work since I was in elementary school 15 years ago, yikes.To gear up for that, I'm going to spend the next couple weeks writing some drabbles and prompt fills, get my headspace ready for 50k+ of Winterhawk. I figure I might as well post them because AO3 needs more Winterhawk forever. Sorry this first one is a bit of a doozy, emotionally. Didn't mean to do that, but then the prompt generator said "loss", and I was like, well, okay then. 
> 
> Also, please, someone tell me if I need to tag anything differently for the content alluded to in this. I just don’t know! (Or help me with tags in general, plz)

Prompt: The story begins in a bar, there's a case of mistaken identity, it's a story about loss, your character gets into a competition with another character.

* * *

The bar was small, dingy. The lights were set low into the ceiling, recessed, burning an amber glow that just barely lit the bartop. Clint chuckled to himself. If he owned a bar, he’d probably do just the same. Lights that dim don’t show the stains that no amount of rags swept over the surface can get out. With that thought in mind, he squinted a little at the surface below his hands; sure enough, even with his eyesight, the wooden countertop looked like any well-respecting bar should. Dark, smooth, evenly waxed.

Clint brought his eyes up and glanced around for the bartender. He hadn’t been here long, but the bar wasn’t exactly busy, so it seemed unlikely that he’d yet to be served. He located the bartender further down the way, one hand on a glass, the other on a rag, swirling them together as he talked to the customer in front of him. There were enough patrons between them, and the lighting was low enough that Clint couldn’t quite see his face, just the messy bun at the back of his head, resting over the red and gray plaid flannel. He turned to survey the shelves of liquor, weighing the options. 

He could go for a draft pour; he wasn’t one much for beer, though over the past decade he’d tried his fair share. He’d felt uncultured for so long in his life that he rarely turned down something new, ever willing to expand his palette. Maybe one day he’d be able to order off a brewery menu with authority, speaking of hops and mouthfeels and barrelling with the confidence that he faked when his job had required it. He could go for a whiskey, instead. Those were more familiar, if only because those had been his father’s drink of choice. Clint had known how to recognize quality whiskies for a long while. They hadn’t had much growing up, but there was always enough for Clint’s dad to maintain his whiskey collection. He was always on the hunt for value steals, for those bottles purchased at allocation price, right at MSRP. Clint could remember an inexpensive yet exclusive bottle accidentally shattered once, when he was 8. He and Barney had tried in a panic to hide it, but there was no escaping the pervasive whiskey fumes that wafted through the downstairs. 

_“You can’t let a smell or a taste be the thing that gives you away, Clint. You’re in control of that, now. It’s just alcohol, and alcohol is just another tool for us,” her eyes were serious, thoughtful, as she poured a finger into the crystal glass in front of him, “Now, this is Suntory, a Japanese brand. Can you taste how it’s more earthy?”_

“What can I do you for?” 

Clint shook himself out of his memory, and made eye contact with the bartender, who had migrated his way in the past few minutes. He had a hint of a smile at the corner of his mouth, his eyes. His hands splayed on the countertop in front of Clint, rag and glass abandoned. 

“I’ll take whatever IPA you have on draft,” Clint responded, “or whatever you recommend, if you think it’s worth it.” 

“Sure, I can do that for you,” with a nod, the bartender turned away. Clint watched him go over to the taps, pulling up a pint glass from the shelf below. His hands were steady, practiced, smooth as he tilted the glass down, wavering only slightly between two spouts, before settling on the one on the left, capped with a red skull. The liquid gurgled into the glass, and Clint watched as it hit the bottom, swirled for a moment, before rising slowly. The bartend tilted the glass back down, ending with a perfectly respectable foam cap, less than a quarter inch. He turned back to Clint, grabbing a napkin from a pile as he did so. 

He placed the napkin in front of Clint, then the pint glass on top of it. Leaning back to watch as Clint picked it up, he said,“This is a new brew from RS brewery, from upstate. It’s an APA, not an IPA, but I like it, and you did say if it was worth it, you’d take a recommendation.” 

“That I did,” Clint conceded, bringing the glass to his lips, “so tell me more, then. What makes this one better than the other?” 

The bartender smiled, blue eyes crinkling, apparently pleased at having made the right decision, “well, it’s all in the yeast, you know. I heard they have this new process for straining out impurities for the cleanest brew possible.” 

Clint alternated between watching his hands, and looking at his face as he spoke. The bartender wasn’t animated, exactly--animated didn’t quite fit in a bar this small, at a time this late. His voice was low as he described the acidity of the barrels, the backstory of the local brewers. His flannel was open at the front, displaying a worn Hawkeye shirt. Clint registered it internally with surprise, since the Hawkeye line had been discontinued after only a season’s run; the public didn’t have quite the same demand for products featuring the high-vantage point Avenger, not when he didn’t have Steve’s well known, striking face, or Tony’s public charisma. Even the Hulk products did better than the Hawkeye line; it appeared that no amount of smashed buildings could dissuade children from thinking that the giant green monster was super cool and worthy of an entire youth wrestling line of products. Then, of course, there were those sexy spandex suits that popped up every year around Halloween, turning housewives into assassins for the night. 

“...from the same brewery later, if you like?” the bartender asked, and Clint realized he had been staring at his shirt for a moment too long. He thought about what he last remembered him saying, then nodded. 

“Yes, that’d be great. This one’s good so far, and it’s nice to support local.” 

“That’s what everyone is saying now,” the bartender smiled, tucking an errant piece of hair behind his ear, “though really, that’s just another way of stressing American made products, which people have been pressing for for decades, haven’t they? It’s not exactly a millennial hipster trend.” 

“I guess they have, then,” Clint responded, which was accurate. He hadn’t finished high school, let alone college, so it wasn’t like he had sat through any lectures analyzing the trends in American purchasing histories and globalization responses. He could remember his dad losing his job, though, in elementary, and the uproar he had made when he stormed home, how for months he had listened to the hate and vitriol that his dad spat about the people from the southern part of the country, who had somehow stolen his job, even though the company he’d been working for had gone bankrupt, employing exactly no-one anymore. 

“Great, then I’ll be back later with their amber ale,” the bartender said, lifting his hands off of the counter, “I’m Bucky, by the way. If you need anything, just give me a holler.” 

Clint smiled at him, watching as he turned away to check on someone down the bar. Bucky’s shirt fit well over his shoulders, and Clint could see the hint of tattoos on the side of his neck, perhaps connecting to the ones he had seen on Bucky’s hands as he had cleaned the glass, poured his drink, and gestured while talking about the brewery. Bucky looked like exactly the kind of guy Clint was interested in, if Clint had the time or desire to be interested in anyone. 

Gaze leaving Bucky, he looked at the mirror behind the shelves of alcohol, watching the rest of the bar casually. There were a few small high top tables along the long alley in front of the bar, before the room opened up to a slightly larger space that housed a couple well worn tables, a single pool table, and another few high tops along the walls. Next to the door that said “bathroom, this way”, there was a dart board. Clint didn’t see any darts in it, but he could imagine it bristling full of red and black ends, clustered tightly in the middle. There was a redhead laughing, hand extended to take the cash from Clint’s unsuspecting victims. “ _Never bet against this one, fools."_

Clint blinked out of his memory, and looked away from the dartboard. He couldn’t escape her, no matter where he was, a new bar or not. It seemed every moment was tainted. His hands flexed around the pint glass in front of him, and he downed it quickly. Picking up the napkin, he folded it in between his hands, twisting it together until it was entirely unusable. He pushed it across the bartop, running it through the condensation left from his glass, turning the thin white paper gray, limp, unusable.

_“This is why we can’t have nice things, durak,”_ _she settled her arms across his shoulders, standing next to his seated body, finally on level with him. She leaned her head onto his, picking up the pieces of the broken coffee mug he had just dropped on the kitchen counter. “I’ll pour you another. I know mornings are hard for sleepy archers like you.”_

Clint unrolled the paper, trying to smooth it out in front of him. It tore in the middle, the center made weak by the water and its journey across the bartop. He shredded it in his hands, dropping tiny pieces into a small stack next to his empty glass. The pieces were desiccated, tiny, gross things, some clinging to his fingertips before piling in a gray heap. 

“Here you go, the amber ale,” with a clunk, Bucky set down a new glass, placing a fresh napkin underneath it. “Is there something else I can get you for now?” 

Clint looked at him, studying his face, his lightly stubbled jaw, the small smile and deep eyes. He drew his brows together and commented, “According to that sign behind you, you guys don’t serve any food here. So unless you’re offering something else…?” 

“No, we don’t, not now. We have before, but the restaurant that operated next door just closed down, so we’re a strictly alcohol only bar for the time being. Sorry for all those late night college students, but they’ll have to go to an actual McDonalds if they want to get their grease fest on after drinking themselves into a stupor,” Bucky told him with a grin, “but I do have eyes, and ears if you wanted to put them to use.” 

“Was that a deaf joke?” Clint asked, unsure. The aids he had in were near undetectable, and he hadn’t gotten distracted long enough earlier for Bucky to have realized he was deaf, had he? 

“What?” Bucky’s eyes widened, his face flushing, “No, I wouldn’t--it was like a ‘I can listen if you want me to’ joke, you know, like bartenders do,--I’m sorry, are you? Wait, no, I’m sorry, that’s so rude of me to ask.” 

Clint let his shoulders fall, and put his hands up, ready to appease him, “No, don’t worry about it. I mean, I am, but it’s fine. That’s just me. Maybe be careful about that though, you know? I can’t tell you how many common sayings exist out there that mention body parts. For those of us with the less functioning ones, it can be annoying or hurtful how people say things like that without realizing what they’re drawing attention to.” 

Bucky nodded, seeming to settle a little, “Yeah, I get that. I realized recently that saying something was lame was kind of a slur to people with prosthetics, or with limps, so I’m back to calling uncool things uncool. I’ve a buddy who kind of slaps me upside the head when I make mistakes like that, so I’m used to being corrected, thankfully.” He made no mention of Clint’s deafness. “So, how about it, then? What brings you here tonight, besides helping me become a better person, apparently?” 

Clint smiled at how Bucky was angling to get back in his good graces, and shrugged, “I’ve been looking for a new place, saw this one and figured it was as good as any.” 

“What was it that did it for you? Our charming exterior? Raging interior? Trendy style choices?” Bucky grinned at him, sarcasm shining through his words, “I mean, nothing says a good time like cracked paint on the door and a half burnt-out open sign.” 

“That was it, actually,” Clint grinned back, “Nothing does it for me quite like disasters waiting to happen. I’m kind of one myself, Nat always says.” 

_“If I hadn’t done reconnaissance on you before you brought me in, Clint, I’d have thought you were SHIELD’s over-friendly mascot, honestly. Never would I have guessed they’d let you out to run missions if I had seen you eat pizza on the couch or try to make it across the kitchen without hurting yourself.”_

“Said,” he corrected, eyes drifting down, “So this place looked just about perfect.” 

Bucky caught his slip, his smile dimming slightly, but didn’t say anything. He picked up Clint’s first glass, and turned to place it in the sink behind him, turning on the water briefly before coming back to rest his palms on the bar in front of Clint. 

“Well, I’m glad this was the just about perfect place for you tonight. If nothing else, I got to introduce someone to RS brewery and learned how to be more inclusive in my language. But that’s pretty self-centered, isn’t it? All positives for me? What can I do for you to make your night a better one?” 

“For all you know, I’m like that friend you mentioned,” Clint said, “maybe I’m on a mission to make the world a better, more inclusive place, so by helping you, I’m actually immensely satisfied, and can go to sleep happy tonight.” 

“Doubt you’re just like him,” Bucky said with a chuckle, “I swear, he’s got important stuff to say, but man does he lack tact. He’s put himself in so many tough situations because he doesn’t know how to read a room or work progress gradually. He sees someone doing something wrong, racist, sexist or whatever and immediately has to address it. Don’t get me wrong, he’s usually in the right, but if he wasn’t as big as he is, he’d get into some real trouble.” 

“I know a guy like that,” Clint agreed, “he never seems to understand that you’ve really got to work a room, make people think it’s their idea, right?” 

_“Know your audience”, she whispered in his ear before stepping out from the alleyway, sashaying under the streetlight to where four blocky men stood, cigarette dangling from her fingertips next to the frayed hem of her jean shorts. He watched from the shadows, hands on his bow. He’d always be her support system in the field, just like she was in most every aspect of his life._

“Exactly,” Bucky grinned, “Subtlety, it’s important, right?” 

Clint nodded. “It can be, depending on the situation. You seem to be pretty good at reading a room yourself. Guess that comes with working in the customer service industry?” 

“That and just being good at paying attention,” Bucky said, “there are plenty of people in customer service who don’t care to pay attention to what the customer is actually saying, despite what they’re, well, actually saying.” He rolled his eyes at himself, “You know what I mean.” 

“I do, yeah,” Clint said. He studied Bucky’s face for a moment, before making a decision and leaning forward, “So what, then, am I actually saying, Bucky?”

**Author's Note:**

> Feedback welcome! Thanks for reading.


End file.
